


Tangled Up in Red

by sheshouldhavebeenason



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 60s AU, Granjolras, M/M, Musicians, enjoltaire - Freeform, exr - Freeform, musician enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1471903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheshouldhavebeenason/pseuds/sheshouldhavebeenason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1969 and, as Dylan once sang, "there was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air." Leading both the musical and revolutionary fronts is Enjolras, an empowered and idealistic journalism major attending Columbia University. As he makes his way around the local countercultural circuits, he can't seem to shake off the attention of Grantaire, a cynical drifter with a history of vices and instigation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

"That's what you're going with?"

The man at whom this question was thrown narrowed his eyes, taken aback. "What?"

"I said," the other man began, "that's what you're going with? You've been talking about this show for weeks. Shouldn't you- I don't know- dress a little better?"

Enjolras, whose sense of fashion was utilitarian at its most creative, scoffed at this. "This performance isn't about glamour, Courfeyrac."

"I know, I know. It's about spreading the message, changing the world, all of that good stuff. But you're a good looking guy, you know. You'd get more attention if you showed it."

"The wrong kind of attention," corrected Enjolras.

"For a struggling musician, all attention is good attention," retorted Courfeyrac. When this warranted only a glare from his roommate, he pressed on. "A button-up, E? That's fully buttoned up? Really?"

"Look, the last time I played this bar was- what, six months ago? They're finally letting me play again after what happened. I think it wise to rouse as little excitement as possible, and if that means keeping my dress conservative, it's what I'll do."

Courfeyrac smiled at the memory of the infamous February 1969 performance at Cafe Who?. Now that was a show. Enjolras had gotten the crowd so riled up over the injustices of the war in Vietnam that a full-on brawl had broken out. When a policeman received a glass bottle to the back of the head, courtesy of a drunken patron paraphrasing the Beatles and crying, "you need a damn good whacking, little piggy!", security used force that was a much more than excessive. There was no barfly left unbruised that night- Enjolras and Courfeyrac included- and so Enjolras was banned from the venue for half a year. Come to think of it, Courfeyrac wasn't quite sure how his friend had managed to get booked there so quickly after his ban had been released. Controversy is publicity, he supposed.

"You could at least undo a few buttons," Courfeyrac said. "Can't be good for your vocal cords, keeping them blocked up so tight."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Would you rather I don a fringed vest like Roger Daltrey?"

Courfeyrac considered this. "You've got the hair for it."

"The button-up stays," declared the musician. After a moment of silent deliberation, Enjolras softened slightly and said, "Well, okay. One button wouldn't hurt," and loosened the collar of his red shirt.

Enjolras had previously been stood in the doorway of the bathroom of their suite-style dorm. Now, he made his way to the kitchenette and poured himself a glass of water. Courfeyrac, watching him from their couch in the adjoined living area, asked, "So what's your set tonight?"

"I think I'll open with a cover," replied Enjolras, "and then launch into my original work. My set is 45 minutes, so I'll have time for-"

"Two songs, with the amount of time you spend preaching to the audience," interjected Courfeyrac.

"It's important that I get my message out there, musically or otherwise," Enjolras chided. 

"Sure, sure. Anyway, keep going."

"Right. I'll have time for about five songs total- yes, I am taking into consideration my speeches- so I've selected the four originals that I consider to be the most effective."

"Which would be?"

Enjolras looked at him quizzically, as if the answer were obvious. "'Minority', of course. Then 'Red, White and Black', 'The Pride of Prejudice' and 'Degeneration Nation.'"

"More of your song titles should rhyme," mused Courfeyrac. "How about... 'The Bomb in Vietnam?'"

"Courf..."

"'Asian Invasion?'"

"Courf!" scolded Enjolras. "I take my music seriously. I don't play limericks."

Courfeyrac chuckled to himself. "Ah, whatever," he dismissed. "You'd knock 'em dead even if you did. Maybe literally, judging by the February incident."

"Nobody died!"

"I'm kidding! ...Sort of." 

This was a sore subject for Enjolras. While he appreciated the fervor with which some people took his message, he was rightfully disturbed by it at times, this particular incident especially. He believed that acting recklessly and without thought led to global-scale tragedies that could have otherwise been avoided. He was all for self defense; if someone threatens you or your freedom, you have every right to fight with all you've got. But progress couldn't be made while the people lived up to the low stereotypes held by their authoritative figures. In what way, then, could respect be cultivated? And without mutual respect or, at the very least, attempted understanding, how could a compromise ever be reached? That drunkard beating the cop with a bottle was fighting hatred with hatred as a result of no previous provocation. Enjolras didn't want that kind of behavior tied to him or to his music.

With an overly exaggerated exhale, Courfeyrac dramatically picked himself off of the couch and announced, with a stretch, "well, E, it's best I be hitting the old, dusty trail."

"You're not coming tonight?" Enjolras asked in a tone that he hoped didn't sound too hurt.

"No..." answered Courfeyrac, slowly, as if he were talking to a four year old. "I've told you, Jehan has a poetry reading tonight. It was booked before your gig was. Previous engagement." When Enjolras remained silent, Courfeyrac amended, "Prouvaire needs support, man. He's not as confident as you are. You can hold down the fort on one show without me in the audience."

Enjolras sighed. "Fine. But if another policeman gets clobbered and you miss it-"

Courfeyrac laughed and gave his roommate an affectionate pat on the back. "There's the spirit. And yes, I'll be very disappointed if I miss that, so please, don't get the crowd too wigged out. Maybe even do up that button."

"Alright, alright," Enjolras relented with a begrudging smile. "Get out of here. Tell Jehan I wish him the best of luck."

"As I'm sure he wishes for you. May you change the world tonight," said Courfeyrac as he exited their living space.

"If only," Enjolras muttered.

The blonde man took a seat on the recently vacated couch and picked up his trusty Marshall guitar. He strummed a few lazy chords, intending to go over his set once before leaving for Cafe Who?, but found his eye being led to the newspaper strewn upon the coffee table. Of course he had devoured all there was to read within the paper the moment he had bought it, but that was one of the many peculiarities of Enjolras: he could read or hear something a million times, and his feelings on the matter would only intensify. 

This headline was certainly no different: 'SOLDIERS AT QUAN-LOI SUFFER HEAVY ATTACKS BY VIET CONG.' Just days earlier, the papers had proclaimed the brutal murder of actress Sharon Tate and four innocent guests in her Los Angeles home. The culprits claimed the Beatles had inspired them. 

The entire world was going to hell; decency, if it had ever existed, seemed to have long run its course. Now, Enjolras knew, it was up to people like him to try and beat the corruption and hatred that seemed to be overflowing within the population. It was up to the idealists, up to those who were aggressive and, perhaps, crazy enough to have hope, to make history.

Enjolras was up to the challenge.

But even he couldn't do it alone.


	2. Chapter One

"And if we allow the spirit of the true America- a nation founded upon freedom and personal liberty rather than this new America, which represents violent, war-mongering imperialism, corporate greed, hypocrisy, mistrust and bigotry- if we allow that spirit which has been lying dormant for nearly a century, we can rise up and start a revolution!" 

The crowd- if it could be called that- slowly clapped in sluggish approval as Enjolras raised his fist in the air and spoke into the microphone. The stool he sat upon was missing a leg, the sound system was spotty, the microphone reeked of cheap beer and the audience member count was barely in the double digits- it was definitely a Wednesday crowd- but these realities did nothing to deter Enjolras' focus.

"The United States government has been under the impression that it can subjugate and abuse its citizens for too long," he continued. "And as if that weren't deplorable enough, it's spreading its message of tyrannical rule in the guise of justice to other nations! We feel content enough to ignore the problems of racism and segregation, of poverty, of sexism, of blatant classism, of homophobia, of elitism and bigotry, of riots and murders in our own nation. We ignore the wellbeing of our fellow Americans in favor of spreading this attitude- this unwanted attitude and our unwanted assistance- to other nations. I say, 'no more!'"- at this line, Enjolras suddenly stood- "No more of this American disease! We must keep ourselves contained and work on rectifying our broken society! We must not endanger the lives of the innocent to do the dirty work of the guilty! If we are the home of the brave, it is our chance to prove it!" He let his words hang in the air and surveyed the room, blue eyes ablaze with a fury he seemed to ignite within himself. Catching his breath, Enjolras slowly lowered his fist, clenched his eyes shut, and began playing the opening chords to 'Degeneration Nation.' 

At the bar, a young but old-for-his-age man shook his head, rolled his eyes and smirked at the histrionics before him. He sat on the barstool with a slouch. He faced the small stage, one elbow placed behind him upon the surface of the bar, one arm in front of him, holding a bottle of beer. His eyebrows seemed locked in a patronizing, amused arch, but his eyes, if one could look past their blotchiness, revealed sincere interest. 

This man had been in this same position for the entirety of Enjolras' performance, the few times he'd swiveled on his stool to order another drink notwithstanding. Even then, though, he'd kept his eyes on the performer. Sure, he was another musician with his head in the clouds, thinking that if enough people were aware of the country's dire situation, they'd revolt and cause change. Sure, he seemed to be deluding himself into believing he were preaching at the Washington Monument as opposed to an under-crowded bar. Sure, his music was strictly melodic protestations, as if he took himself much too seriously. But that didn't matter. What mattered was the passion with which Enjolras deluded himself. It was infectious. If this particular bar-goer weren't so adamant in his cynicism, he would have admitted that even he felt a little more optimistic about the future just by hearing the words of this golden haired, conservatively dressed activist.

As the ending chord of 'Degeneration Nation' resounded, the audience applauded- with only a little more energy this time around- and Enjolras gave a humble nod. The man at the bar felt his smirk widen into what could almost be called a genuine smile. He watched Enjolras pack up his guitar. As the musician descended the stage, he was granted a few claps on the back, a couple 'good set, man's, and multiple nods of approval from audience members. As the drinker noticed Enjolras headed toward the bar, he turned around in his seat.

"Crystal!" he cried, summoning the bartender.

"R, not even you could finish a bottle that fast."

He grinned, but quickly said, "no, no, that's not it."

Crystal raised an eyebrow and looked at the man in front of her. "Then what is it?"

"The guy who just played- send him a beer."

"Got it," was Crystal's reply. 

As Enjolras neared the bar, this man put on an intentionally indifferent mask and stared at the mirrored back wall, as if he'd been looking at the liquor selections all night. From his periphery, he saw Enjolras prop his guitar case up against the side of the bar and take a seat a few stools away. As soon as he was seated, Crystal obeyed. "From a secret admirer," she announced as she ceremoniously slid the glass bottle toward the blonde.

The term 'secret admirer' made R's emotionless facade break. He jerked his head upward to shoot a threatening, albeit worried, glare at the bartender, who only winked in response.

This reaction did not go unnoticed by Enjolras, who immediately swiveled in his seat to look at the man to his right. He raised the bottle and said, "I'm afraid I'm not much of a drinker."

R frowned at this, which Enjolras also noticed. "But I thank you, anyway," he added.

That smirk played its way upon R's face once more, and he nodded slightly. "No problem. You looked like you could use a drink after nearly working yourself up to cardiac arrest up there."

Enjolras furrowed his brow, not knowing how to take this. "We all must have a little passion for what we do."

"Well said," answered R. "Which is why I'll be taking that drink myself, seeing as you won't have it." He leaned across the bar and grabbed the bottle, saying, "I'm passionate about what I do, too, you see."

"Are you mocking me?" Enjolras asked, growing visibly irritated.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Enjolras eyed him suspiciously before deciding the man was surely drunk. He wasn't worth his energy. He called Crystal over and ordered a glass of ice water. This order made Enjolras' new companion laugh to himself, but he pretended not to hear.

They sat in silence for a moment before R could no longer resist. He turned toward him and commented, "Some set you played."

Enjolras kept his gaze fixed steadfastly on his glass.

"I liked the Dylan cover."

Still, silence.

"'Times-They-Are-A-Changin'... I'm more of a 'Rainy Day Women' kind of guy, but hey, small differences." R saw he was getting nowhere with the small talk, so he decided to step up his game. "You really believe that bullshit you spewed about the American ideal? Because it seems to me that the American ideal is what it always has been: the more fortunate squashing the less fortunate."

Enjolras wheeled around in his barstool, his gaze fixed upon the dark-haired antagonist. "This nation was founded upon the basis of freedom, upon life, liberty, the pursuit of-"

"Slavery," interrupted R. "Slavery and misogyny. And religious fanaticism. Come on now, pretty boy. I hate to be the one to tell you the truth about the Founding Fathers, but they were all hypocrites."

"How dare you slander the name of those responsible for our independence! They were willing to give their lives for the wellbeing of their fellow man."

"And most of them willing to keep slaves in the meantime. How many of them actually gave their lives for their fellow man? Wait, I'll pose a better question. How many of them gave up their fellow men for their own lives?"

Enjolras gritted his teeth and fought the urge to scream. "War is a natural part of civilization. It is unfortunate, but there are extenuating circumstances under which it is necessary."

"So let's skip to 1969. What if the government big shots believe that the situation in Vietnam is one of those circumstances?"

"You can't actually believe that."

R shrugged. "No, I guess I don't. But we're talking about the beliefs of our government here."

"You wouldn't know the first thing about the beliefs within our government," Enjolras challenged.

"Oh, I think I do. More so than you, at any rate, as I'm willing to admit that the foundation of this shitty country wasn't the gold-paved dream the original settlers believed it to be. This country was founded on imperialism and genocide. Don't you think you should give us props for consistency?" R raised his eyebrow and widened that infuriatingly smug smirk of his as Enjolras shot up out of his seat.

"The settlement does not equate the ideals of the foundation!" cried Enjolras, aggressively closing the gap between them. 

"I beg to differ," the other man said calmly, raising his bottle to his lips.

This relaxed composure only irritated Enjolras further. "And you're content with this, then?! You're happy to let people stew in their own ineffectiveness? You're happy to allow your country to keep killing innocent people for an unjust cause, to keep discriminating against all those who are different?! People like you are just as bad as those actively causing the problems! To see death looming and to offer no aid is to murder!"

Their faces were mere inches apart now, Enjolras shaking with passionate fury and the so-called R keeping his signature look of complacent amusement. "And you think you're going to stop a war with a guitar?"

"I think it is worth trying!" Enjolras was screaming now, turning the heads of all of the bar patrons, who openly gaped and secretly hoped for a fist fight. "If I can raise awareness with this guitar, I can raise the hopes of the people! I can cultivate passion and reason and information, and that is what is at the heart of every revolution!"

"People in bars don't care about your message," R scoffed. "They don't care about your lyrics or your speeches. They just want something loud and distracting enough so that they don't have to think."

"It is my mission- no, my duty- to get them to the state of contemplation in spite of that."

The men locked eyes, as if challenging the other to speak next. R folded under the heat of the stern gaze and looked away. He regained his footing soon enough, however, and asked casually, "Why do you talk like that?"

Enjolras nearly reeled back in shock. "What?" he snarled. Weren't they just arguing? Where was he going with this?

"You're off stage now. I'm the only one in earshot- well, I would be, if you'd lower your damn voice like a normal person. You don't need to keep talking as if you're making a speech. This is regular conversation."

Enjolras looked disgusted. "There is nothing wrong with eloquence," he fired. R burst out laughing at that, and Enjolras was forced to cool down by confusion. "What?" 

R seemed to be wiping tears from his eyes before he answered, "Nothing. You're something else, you know that?"

Enjolras didn't know what to make of this man. Was he trying to compliment him now? He unwittingly backed up until they were a comfortable distance apart and took the barstool beside R as his seat.

"Your name's Enjolras, right?" 

"Yes," he answered, still in the haze of confusion. "And you are...?"

"Friends call me R," was the response. He took a drink and added, "You can call me Grantaire. Pleased to meet someone whose name manages to out-French my own."

"You're French?" Enjolras asked, trying to tread on what little common ground they had so as to avoid making another scene. The last thing he needed was another six month ban.

"Yeah. The Frenchmen's sulky, chiseled film star good looks clearly skipped a generation with me." Grantaire shrugged. "You, on the other hand... you got enough of those genetics to make up for them missing me, it seems."

Enjolras shook his head and took a drink of his water, suddenly wishing it were something stronger.

"Don't you worry that blonde head of yours, though," Grantaire continued, despite the lack of encouragement, "as I got another undeniably French trait."

"And what's that?" Enjolras found himself asking.

"I'm always giving up."

"Your cynicism is so thorough it passes for certainty," Enjolras remarked.

"Thank you. The negative is all you can really count on, I'd say."

For the first time since they began talking, Enjolras imagined something that resembled a strange sorrow beneath Grantaire's bravado. "Things will turn around, Grantaire," he tried to assure. "It takes some effort, but things work themselves out."

"Your optimism is so thorough it passes for certainty," Grantaire sneered.

"It takes effort, Grantaire," Enjolras persisted, his tone much firmer now. "Success is not easy to achieve. If it were, my protests wouldn't be necessary. But that doesn't mean success isn't worth the fight. There is always something worth fighting for."

"So they say."

"It's true."

"Not for me."

The silence they sat in was much different from the last one they'd fallen into. This one was almost companionable. Enjolras' thoughts were consumed by this strange man. He couldn't figure him out- his motives, his personality, his being. 

Grantaire's thoughts were consumed by his own conversational shortcomings. He'd intended to keep his cool- to remain that confident, somewhat pompous, in-control guy who'd sent Enjolras a drink and stayed stone-faced in the midst of a one-sided screaming match. But he'd slipped. At least ten minutes had passed before he realized that one more effort could be made to regain his edge.

"Well, Enjolras, it's been electric, but I'm going to take my leave," Grantaire announced. He slammed a bill down on the bar as he stood up on impressively steady legs.

Enjolras turned to him, surprised to find himself a little saddened by the thought of being left alone. "Leaving already?" he asked.

"Your idealism is contagious and while I've never been infected, I'm not sure if I'm immune. If it gets into my system of realism... we'll have a real illness on our hands."

Enjolras smirked despite his best efforts. "Have a good night, then, Grantaire."

Grantaire attempted a curtsy and said, "You as well, Golden God."

Shaking his head, Enjolras commented, "That nickname's already taken. I'm not exactly Robert Plant."

Grantaire shrugged. "I'll come up with something better." As he began to 'take his leave', Enjolras called his name. He turned around, pleasantly surprised.

"Find something worth fighting for, will you?" It wasn't really a question. It was said in an astounding air of authority, as if he were commanding him- challenging him.

Grantaire shook his head and grinned, but as he made his way for the door, he muttered, "I will."

As the air of the warm August night hit him, Grantaire exhaled, turned the corner and made his way toward another bar.


	3. Chapter Two

Enjolras didn't have another show lined up for over a week. Nine days, in fact. Not that Enjolras was the excitable type to count down.

This was fortunate, in some ways, as he often let his activism and musicianship eclipse his schoolwork. He was just beginning his last year at the prestigious Columbia University, studying journalism. Referred to as "a modern-day muckraker" by his course professor, Enjolras' political zeal shone through in all aspects of his life.

He was really quite dedicated to his education. Enjolras was, by no imaginable means, a slacker. But when an opportunity came along to share his vision and opinions with more than a groaning classroom full of students who were, frankly, irked by the man's outspokenness- to reach the general public and potentially educate and inspire them- Enjolras couldn't help but get caught up in it, to the point where all else in his life faded into the background. 

So when the next opportunity presented itself, Enjolras threw himself into it with all of his usual dedication. He had managed to book himself a gig at Staley's, a club in the West Village. Staley's was a venue renowned for its weekend performances; Enjolras was honored, if not slightly intimidated, to be playing there. 

At least he was playing on a Friday this time. Wednesday crowds, he learned, were not his target demographic.

Courfeyrac was his usual supportive self while offering tips to make his friend's stage time more visually appealing. Enjolras naturally shook these comments off, but appreciated that his roommate was trying to help- and, more than he would admit, he appreciated that Courfeyrac was coming this time.

"Jehan's coming," Courfeyrac told Enjolras as they sat comfortably in the back of a taxi. "He got all excited when I told him you were playing Staley's. Sweet kid, that one."

"Well, thank you for drumming up support."

"Don't sweat it, man."

Enjolras glanced out the window of the moving car that was moving them closer and closer to Staley's, uncharacteristically silent while looking characteristically stoic. Courfeyrac smiled as he saw this. "You're not nervous, are you?"

Enjolras glared at him. No, he wasn't nervous.

Okay. Maybe a little.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________  
To see him on stage, however, would not cause you to conjure up the word 'nervous'. As usual, Enjolras looked at home on stage, in front of this impressive crowd of at least two hundred.

In that audience was a familiar face that belonged neither to Jehan or Courfeyrac, but to Grantaire.

Staley's was set up much differently than Cafe Who?. The bar was set along the left side of the club's main room, as opposed to set flush against the back, which meant that in order to make a stage entrance or exit, you'd have to directly pass it. Which is why Grantaire didn't move toward the bar until Enjolras had taken the stage. Grantaire stood by himself, as drawn in by Enjolras as he was the first time he'd seen him perform. He could not seem to look away, as much as he wanted to at times. Even when Enjolras would say something especially idealistic, Grantaire couldn't bring himself to scorn the words while they were being spoken. 

His voluble speech was proof of magic.

"We are not strangers to suffering!" Enjolras was yelling from his spotlight. "Nor are we strangers to complacency! The two go hand in hand- the more complacent we are, the more oblivious we are to the suffering of our souls and to those around us. We sit and cook ourselves in the sweat and blood of our less fortunate brethren while we convince ourselves it is the natural order- or we ignore the existence of these laborers, which is an offense as impermissible as the first! No longer can we sweep the secrets of society under the rug! No longer can we view the supposed dregs of our communities as subhuman! We must band together- those we consider desirable and undesirable- in the bond of humanity if we ever want to gain the freedom we so desperately deserve!

"And what is it that makes one man more important than another? Is it the way he looks? The money he makes? Or is it the value of his character? It certainly isn't the latter. We've been conditioned to believe the value of a soul is contingent on the exterior and superficial! The superficial is what keeps us slaves- slaves of our own prejudice, desire and ignorance. 

"If we were to view a beautiful soul, what would we find? Certainly not a cache of monetary funds or sexual partners. We would find magnanimity, compassion, hope and, above all, understanding. To call for the manumit of humanity, we must call for the trust of the human condition!"

Enjolras' hair was illuminated by the white spotlight, creating the illusion of a scintillating golden halo. His skin was as flawless as marble, even under the harsh fluorescence. His eyes contained more passion and fire than it seemed one man could hold. He was an ethereal vision, Grantaire thought- the closest you could get to the existence of an angel.  
An angel with an intense anger problem, perhaps, but an angel nonetheless.

The hour that contained Enjolras' set flew by. When he played his final chord, he shouted over it, "Long live the people! Long live us!", which earned a deafening applause. Enjolras looked triumphant, as if he had single-handedly won a war, but, curiously enough, without a single trace of smugness. Grantaire didn't understand. If he could control two hundred people so effortlessly in the palm of his hand, he'd be beaming out of both ends by now. 

He felt a slight panic as he saw Enjolras packing up his guitar and making way to exit the stage. His heart rate quickened. Enjolras was passing him now, oblivious. Maybe if he stayed quiet, Enjolras would stay unwitting...

"Hey, Apollo!"

Shit. So much for staying quiet.

Enjolras jerked his head toward the strange greeting and gave a slight nod when he gazed upon its source. He made a few graceful strides to Grantaire's side and rested his guitar case against the bar. "Apollo?" he inquired.

"Golden God was already taken, remember? Told you I'd come up with something better," Grantaire grinned.

"I'm just Enjolras."

"Just Enjolras?" Grantaire blurted. "Have you heard yourself speak? Or sing? Or-"

Luckily, Grantaire's unintentional gushing was truncated by the approach of a young couple, clearly seeking out Enjolras.

The male half of the equation lightly tapped Enjolras' shoulder, gaining his attention. "Great set, man," he said. "What you said about defending the outcasts... right on, brother."

His female companion spoke up. "It was beautiful."

Enjolras gave a humble smile. "I'm just happy to be able to share my message with the public."

The woman began asking about Enjolras' views on Mao's Cultural Revolution, to which Enjolras eagerly responded in negative, well-thought out statements. Soon enough, the man joined in and the three were having their own round table discussion. 

Grantaire, feeling a little alienated from the sudden group dynamic, interjected. "Communism is to us what capitalism is to them. That's all there is to it. Mao feels he's doing what's right, and even though it's complete bullshit, it isn't up to us to police the world."

"Nobody's policing the world, Grantaire," returned Enjolras. "We're simply discussing his actions."

"Well, what is there to discuss?"

"Mao hasn't exactly been keeping communism on its pedestal peacefully."

"If Nixon thought people were trying to turn us into commies, he'd react the same way."

Enjolras gritted his teeth. "I'm not comparing Nixon to Mao. Nixon may be morally bankrupt, but Mao is leagues ahead of him in terms of subjugation and dehumanization."

"Ah. So less evil than pure evil is good, in your eyes."

"When did I say that? Why are you so hell-bent on twisting my words?"

The couple watched the two men bicker like this for a few minutes until the inevitable blow-up, which came from, not surprisingly, Enjolras.

"And you would be perfectly content if you were forced out of your life into the countryside as part of a movement in obscurantism?!"

Grantaire laughed as the young couple, now frightened by the intensity they'd originally admired, backed away. He raised his glass to them as they disappeared into the crowd. "I'm afraid the Down the Countryside Movement only affected intellectuals, my dear. I'd be safe."

"You're infuriating. To think that I-" Enjolras was cut short by yet another tap on the shoulder, this time from an attractive, youthfully vibrant young woman alone. "Yes?"

Sensing the irritation in his voice- that was, of course, not meant for her- the woman seemed to think twice about approaching him. "I just... wanted to say I dig your music," she stuttered.

"Well, thank you," Enjolras said, trying to collect himself. This girl didn't deserve to be lashed out upon.

"It was cool, that song you did- 'Red White and Black', I think?"

"Interesting story about that song, actually," Enjolras began, turning deliberately from Grantaire to shower this stranger in his complete attention. As Enjolras began telling the story of how the aforementioned song came to be, Grantaire noticed something that Enjolras didn't: the girl didn't seem interested in the tale. 

So Enjolras kept talking, getting carried away by the story of the first time he realized the corruption that tied together most of twentieth century military history, as the girl stood there, shamelessly and lustfully eyeing him. Grantaire had to hide his laughter. This was going to be good.

"Yeah, Vietnam... we shouldn't be there," the woman said before adding, "I like your views, man. You wanna come back to the van?"

"The van?" 

"It's where I live. We can get out of here. Talk somewhere alone."

Grantaire couldn't take this anymore; as he saw the blank, confused look suffuse upon Enjolras' usually understanding visage, he burst out laughing. The woman glared at him, then turned back to Enjolras, who seemed to be adding her invitation up in his head.

"I don't see why we couldn't continue talking- wait. Wait, wait, wait. You don't care about my message at all, do you?" Enjolras didn't give the poor girl a chance to answer, and instead barreled on. "I doubt you were even listening to me! If you have a shred of decency in that darkened mind of yours, I would suggest you walk away right now before you humiliate yourself and offend me further."

The girl, beautiful and terrified, all but ran.

"Way to let her down easy," Grantaire remarked.

Enjolras turned back to him and shook his head. "I am not here to gain a lover. I am here to-"

"Freedom, politics, band together, all that jazz, we know," Grantaire interrupted.

For the first time since he recognized him, Enjolras wondered why Grantaire was here in the first place. As the next performer took her spot on stage, Enjolras asked bitterly, "and to what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight?"

Grantaire shrugged. "Look, she's starting," he said, hoping to divert Enjolras' attention. 

Such a ploy didn't work to distract the inescapable focus of Enjolras, but the approach of Courfeyrac and Jehan did. 

"Great set, as always," Courfeyrac commended with a friendly slap to his roommate's back. "Although I still think the Daltrey vest would do you some good."

"I've already been given the wrong kind of attention tonight. I don't think being bare-chested would help my plight."

"Oh, how sad it must be to be considered universally attractive!" Courfeyrac mocked. 

"I found your speeches deeply moving tonight, Enjolras," came the shy, magnetic voice of Jehan. "Your verbal gift is astounding."

"Oh, great, another one who talks like you," snorted Grantaire.

This comment assured the recognition of the two men who had just joined them. "Who's this guy?" asked Courfeyrac.

"That's-"

"R," interrupted Grantaire. "Call me R." He extended his hand, which was promptly shaken, and he was given a proper introduction. 

"I've got to say, you seemed to have made an impact on the audience this evening," observed Jehan. 

"I feel as if my message went unheeded."

"You heard the applause, right?" asked Courfeyrac.

"Yes," answered Enjolras. "So they heard me, but that doesn't mean they understood. It's simple to be thrown off by a harsh truth within a pretty melody."

"Even if that were true," rejoined Courfeyrac, "I don't think anyone could be thrown off by your ranting. It's clear what that was about."

"You're too hard on yourself," offered Jehan.

Grantaire watched the three friends interact with a strange interest. They assured Enjolras, who admitted that perhaps he had gotten his hopes up a little too high for this night. Grantaire wondered what it must feel like to have this deity among mortals value your opinion so highly that he allowed it to grant him reassurance. 

After about fifteen minutes of conversation, Courfeyrac and Jehan decided they wanted to give the current performer the attention she deserved- she really was quite good, Enjolras admitted- and so the two bought drinks and pushed their way to the front of the crowd.

"Well?" Grantaire asked.

"Well what?"

"Well, aren't you going to follow?"

"I prefer to remain outside of the crowd. I find it easier to breathe."

"I'm honored."

"By what?"

"You'd rather stay here with me. The prince deigns his royal company for the sake of the pauper."

Enjolras rolled his eyes, something he seemed to do quite a lot around Grantaire. "You know I don't think of myself- or of you - in that way."

"I know," replied Grantaire. It was a simple reply echoing with an unspoken, 'but I do.'

"You never answered my question," pressed Enjolras. "What are you doing here?"

"What?" the other man asked defensively. "I can't hang out and grab a brew without being questioned?"

Enjolras looked around and mentally compared the glamorous Staley's to the down-to-earth Cafe Who? "This doesn't exactly seem like it would be your first choice in liquor and entertainment," he finally said.

"Nor yours."

"That's different, Grantaire. I was paid to play here."

"And I'm paying to play." Grantaire saw Enjolras shake his head in frustration before stepping toward the bar. "Ah, ah, ah," he stopped. "Allow me. Barkeep! Bring this gentleman a glass of your finest ice water. On me."

"We don't charge for ice water," the bartender replied.

Grantaire looked sternly at him, hiding his embarrassment well, and said, "send him one, anyway!"

Enjolras took the glass with a small, "thank you," and took a drink. As they stood in silence, watching the woman on stage perform, Enjolras couldn't shake the feeling that Grantaire was staring at him. However, each time he tried to confront this matter, the other man was looking straight at the singer. 

"So when you're not fighting the good fight, what are you doing?" asked Grantaire.

"Studying, mainly. Journalism. As for yourself?"

Grantaire let out a self deprecating laugh. "Well, I'm not exactly the academic type."

"So you work, then?"

"Sort of. I'm a bit of a drifter."

"And what does that entail?"

Grantaire shrugged. "I drink. I draw. I drift."

This brought a tiny smile to Enjolras' face, but he quickly recovered. "So you just go from place to place?"

"More or less," he answered. "Last weekend I found myself in Bethel."

Enjolras pondered this for a moment, and when the familiarity of the otherwise average New York town hit him, he turned to Grantaire and asked, "You went to the Woodstock festival?"

Grantaire beamed. "I did."

"How did you manage that?"

"Hitchhiking is a modern marvel. Anyway, after a while, they got so tired of people sneaking in that it became a free concert. However, I was unaware of that and busted my ass trying to crawl under a hole in the fence."

"Was it worth the effort?"

Grantaire looked thoughtful, then said, "I'd say so. It was dirty. Messy. Crowded. Lots of drugs. Easy to get lost. Just my kind of thing, really." He took a drink. "You would have hated it."

"I'm quite fond of most of the acts that played that weekend, I'll have you know."

"The thing is, the music wasn't even the main focus. It got too crowded for that. If you were stuck in the back, the stage was pretty much a dot. You might as well have been listening to records outside. No, it was the community that drew people in."

"I don't dislike community."

Grantaire let out a cold laugh. "You would have been all over them! 'You think this is going to change the world? Sober up! This is exactly what The Man expects of us! Show some modesty!' Please, man. They weren't your type of crowd."

"I disagree," began Enjolras. "The fact that hundreds of thousands of people could cohabitate for three days with nothing but the bare necessities shows a lot about the human spirit."

"Despite all of Lang's big talk, I think we both know people didn't go to prove some existential point," countered Grantaire. "We went to get blitzed and listen to some cool music, and to do that with other people who wanted to get blitzed and listen to some cool music."

"I still think it shows a significant side of humanity, intentionally or not."

"Pete Townshend nearly killed a guy with his guitar. What side of humanity does that show?"

Enjolras couldn't hide the surprise on his face. From all of the headlines and stories revolving around the recent festival, this is one he hadn't heard. "What?!"

"Abbie Hoffman went ranting in the middle of the Who's set. So Townshend took his guitar and knocked him off the stage." Grantaire watched Enjolras fight another smile and added, "Makes me think, if that's how Townshend reacted, God help the man who dares to interrupt one of your sets."

"I would reason with him until he left the stage."

"You'd kill him."

"Would I lack justification?"

Grantaire laughed. "Not from your viewpoint, no." They stood there quietly for a couple of minutes, Enjolras intently watching the performer and Grantaire intently watching Enjolras. The silence was broken, however, when Grantaire muttered, "Uh-oh, more fans of the revolution," causing Enjolras to lose focus on the music being played and to search for the suspects. As soon as he was able to eye them in the midst of the audience, they were standing before him.

There were three men, all around the same age; one was a bespectacled, intelligent-looking guy with shaggy hair. He gave off a vibe of authority and walked with a purpose. One was a lanky, nervous brunette who, despite radiating as much intelligence as his companion, had a certain air of neuroticism that made him seem almost child-like. The third was a tall, bald-headed man with a sardonic presence- similar to Grantaire's in some ways- and yet a friendly visage. They were an odd group, but there was an undeniable unity among them, especially in regards to the bald man and the brunette. 

"Hey, man," greeted the one with the glasses. "I really dug your set tonight."

"We all did!" added the bald one.

Enjolras looked at each of the men carefully before replying with a simple, "thank you."

"You've got a great message," continued Glasses. "And the talent to convey it well. A lot of music these days comes off as trying too hard to make a statement- jumping on the Dylan bandwagon, Bossuet here calls it- but yours doesn't fall into that. It's refreshing."

Enjolras perked up. So they actually listened to him? "As was that comment," he admitted. "I'm Enjolras."

"Combeferre. And this-" he pointed to the brunette- "is Joly, and this guy, we call Bossuet." Enjolras nodded to them in recognition.

"I'm Grantaire, by the way," came the previously silent man on Enjolras' left. "In case you were wondering."

Combeferre nodded to him in the same manner exhibited by Enjolras before continuing. "I'll get to the point. Joly, Bossuet and I are part of a group. ABC Ventures, we're called. We organize underground shows and events for the counterculture."

"We're working on a festival!" Joly chimed in. "Musicians, artists, satirists and writers with a countercultural message."

"If we can get our shit together in time, it's going to be awesome," said Bossuet.

"We'll get it together," Combeferre assured. "But it takes work. For instance, one of our staple acts dropped out a couple of days ago."

"It shouldn't be difficult to find a replacement," offered Enjolras.

Grantaire snorted. "Not with all of the self-righteous longhairs in this city."

"Typically, I'd agree," said Combeferre. "However, the festival is in two weeks."

"Which is what we wanted to talk to you about," began Bossuet. "Would you be interested in playing?"

Enjolras looked dumbfounded. "Really? I'd... love to, actually. Of course, I would need to know the details."

"It's a two-day festival," joined Joly. "September fifth and sixth. We've got a farmer in Wallkill who's letting us use his space."

"They're letting you play in Wallkill? After the way they treated the Woodstock guys?" asked Grantaire.

"The acts we've got booked aren't quite on the Woodstock scale. The Wallkillians don't seem to be worried because they know it won't draw as much of a crowd," explained Combeferre. 

Joly turned the focus back to Enjolras. "You'd get an hour and a half long set, if that's okay, early Saturday night."

"That sounds great," Enjolras approved.

"You'll get paid, of course. What you make depends on the turnout," commented Bossuet.

"Actually," said Combeferre, fishing through the pockets of his jeans, before producing a small card. "Take this. It's got our contact information. We meet every Tuesday night- with a group bigger than this- at the Cafe Musain to discuss the news and plan events. You should come this week to hammer down the details."

"You'll get a better idea of what you're getting yourself into," warned Joly with a grin.

Enjolras looked intently at the card and then back up to them. "Sure. What time should I be there?"

"The meetings start at 7," replied Bossuet. "But we're there for hours. Sometimes people stroll in at 9. It's loose; no worries if you're late."

Grantaire drained his glass and threw an arm around Enjolras. "My client and I will be there."

Enjolras glared at him and inched his shoulders out from under his grasp. "He's not my manager," he clarified, "but I will be there."

"As will I!" confirmed Grantaire. He answered Enjolras' burning gaze with a defensive, "what? I could use a little countercultural spirit. Down with the system, change is gonna come, rah-rah."

Combeferre eyed the pair suspiciously. "Great," he said decisively. "So we'll see both of you there." 

The three shook hands with Enjolras and then disappeared into the crowd, with Bossuet offering a "welcome to the ABC, gentlemen!"

"And what could you possibly gain from this festival? Ideals to mock? Optimists to scorn?" Enjolras asked resentfully. "This is a real opportunity, Grantaire. I don't need some stranger to come along and ruin it for me."

Grantaire surprised him by looking genuinely wounded by these words. His face seemed to fall; he broke eye contact in favor of shoe-gazing. "I'm not trying to ruin anything," he replied. 

"Then what is your aim? Because frankly, I can't see it."

"You're the one who told me to find something worth fighting for."

This was a response that Enjolras certainly was not expecting. "Be serious."

Grantaire grinned and, with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows, retorted, "But I'm wild."

Enjolras shook his head in disapproval. "I'm warning you, Grantaire. If you're simply going to this meeting to be an instigator, you may want to rethink your plan."

"Relax, okay? I think the meeting would be good for me."

Enjolras remained silent. He analyzed Grantaire with eyes so intense that the other man felt like shriveling up. "You're making an effort," he observed.

"You have that effect on me."

Enjolras granted him a grateful smile. 

To see that smile alone, Grantaire thought, was well worth wasting his Tuesday night sitting around in a cheap cafe and listening to idealists harp on about an impossible dream.


	4. Chapter Three

The Cafe Musain was many things, and they all depended upon who you asked. To a "blitzed-out longhair", as Grantaire would say, the Musain was a cool place to grab a cup of java. To a corporate employee or to an austere authoritative figure, it was a rat's nest infested by members of the lowest rung of the hierarchy of civilization. But to a politically-centered revolutionary with more ambition than years, the Cafe Musain was home.

It was a deceivingly spacious place, with brightly painted murals covering the walls both on the inside and the outside. What was notable about its layout was that it boasted two floors. On the first floor, there wasn't much out of the ordinary. There was a long counter behind which three mellow and youthful baristas served coffee and pastries. On the floor, there was a typical assortment of tables and chairs- mismatched, which added character, Enjolras thought. There were more counters against the windows, accompanied by bar stools. 

But something wasn't right. It was 7:00 and the men from Friday night were nowhere to be found.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Jehan, who had been dragged there along with Courfeyrac, asked. 

"It has to be," answered Enjolras. 

Courfeyrac noted the beautiful, dark-skinned barista behind the counter and sauntered his way over to her in a show of confidence that bordered on arrogance. Enjolras rolled his eyes when he saw his roommate lean over the counter and ask, suggestively, "do you want me to grind that for you?"

The barista looked up and shot him a brilliant look of pained indifference.

"Hey, beautiful. Is it the Cafe Musain that has brought us together?" 

She gave him a smile that was far too sweet to be genuine. "Is that how you talk to all women or am I just unlucky? I'll have you know I'm in a relationship, so you can save your breath." She began pumping foam into a bright orange, oversized mug. "But yes, this is the Musain."

Courfeyrac bowed. "My apologies, m'lady. I was but being friendly. No intention had I to offend."

The barista, despite herself, grinned. "Your friends look lost," she observed.

"We're meeting a group here. Or, we're supposed to be meeting a group here. We're starting to think we've been stood up." 

She shrugged. "It happens."

"Could you help us out?"

"And why would I after that horrible introduction?"

"Ah, but we've yet to be properly introduced." He held out his hand and said, "I'm Courfeyrac."

The barista smirked at his hand, but didn't take it. "Musichetta."

"Excuse me?"

"Musichetta. That's my name. Now tell me how I can help you before I change my mind."

"Well, 'Chetta- can I call you 'Chetta?- my friends and I came to meet with a group. See that boy over there? Look at him. He's a pretty thing, not used to rejection. Don't make me be the one to tell him we've been stood up. It'll break his little heart, I tell you!" Courfeyrac got down on his knees and clasped his hands pleadingly. "Please, 'Chetta! Say it ain't so! Say there really is a group that meets here on Tuesdays! Tell me we haven't been conned! Oh, Musichetta, lovely Musichetta-!"

"So, you made it."

Courfeyrac jerked his head toward the direction of the interruption. There was Combeferre, standing upon a stairway that had been previously blocked off by an 'employees only' sign. Slightly embarrassed by his theatrics, he got up off of the floor. "I'm- uh- Courfeyrac. And you must be Combeferre. Pleasure."

Musichetta held in her laughter and asked, "you actually invited these guys to join ABC?"

"In his defense, he's never met Courfeyrac before," said Enjolras. "I'm the one with the official invitation."

"Now that makes more sense."

"Combeferre, this is Jehan," Enjolras introduced. "He's a poet. Brilliant with words. I thought he could make a solid contribution to the group."

Combeferre smiled. "That's great. The more, the merrier. Now, where's your other friend?"

"What friend?"

"The one with the dark hair, from the bar. R, I believe his name was?"

Enjolras shook his head in comprehension. "Oh. Him. We're not really friends. He's been to a few shows, that's all."

"Really?" asked Combeferre.

Enjolras looked to Jehan and then to Courfeyrac, wondering what Combeferre was so surprised about. "Yes...?"

"You guys seemed close. Tense, but close. But he did say he was coming, right?"

"I wouldn't put too much stock in that."

As if accepting an unknown challenge, the faces of the four men turned toward the opening door to see Grantaire make a show of entering. "I have arrived," he announced. "The meeting can begin now!" Upon seeing Enjolras, his face unashamedly illuminated. "Enjolras!" he greeted enthusiastically, clapping him on the back. 

"Hello, Grantaire."

After re-introductions were made, Combeferre led them up the stairs.

"Are you employees?" asked Enjolras.

"Nope."

"How are we allowed up here?"

"Joly and Bossuet are dating Musichetta."

"What, like... both of them?" inquired Jehan, in a tone so soft it elicited a hearty laugh from Grantaire.

"This is 1969, Jehan! To hell with social norms!"

Enjolras nudged him in a gesture that meant to convey, 'keep your voice down'.

When they reached the top of the stairs, they entered a fairly open, wood-paneled room. There was one large, rectangular table in the middle, surrounded yet again by mismatched chairs. There were several smaller tables- some round, some square, one was even a booth- scattered across the worn, wooden floor. There was a rack full of wine in one corner of the room, which caught Grantaire's eye immediately. Posters, flags and flyers adorned the otherwise blank walls. There were a decent number of people at these tables, conversing, laughing and arguing.

"Guys!" called Combeferre. Eventually, silence descended upon the room and all eyes were on their leader. "These are the new recruits. This is Jehan, Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and this is Enjolras. He'll be playing at the festival."

A burly man in a red and white T-shirt nodded to them and then said gruffly, to Enjolras, "Thanks for stepping in, man. Saved our asses."

"That's Bahorel," explained Combeferre. "You already know Joly and Bossuet." The pair waved as they heard their names. "Go meet everyone, and then we'll start."

Courfeyrac walked around as if this is where he'd always belonged, shaking hands amicably and making friends with everyone, with Jehan close behind. Those two, not having met Joly, Bossuet or, prior to this, Combeferre, had more work to do than Enjolras and Grantaire. Enjolras made opposite rounds with Grantaire hot on his heels, irritating him but somehow amusing and beguiling those they met.

There was Feuilly, a charming, kind-hearted and generous orphan. He spoke warmly to Enjolras about his views on the Nixon administration. He seemed more keen to listen, but there was a certain fire in his hazel eyes that showed the intelligence and passion that lay beneath. There was Marius, a shy, beautiful, freckled young man who frequently stumbled over words. This trait was particularly unfortunate, as he was an aspiring lawyer. He took Grantaire's good-natured ribbing in stride and gave off the impression that he was always dreaming about something that wasn't actually the matter at hand. There was Eponine, ABC's sole female member. She was naturally gorgeous, with her big brown eyes and long dark hair, but her strong personality showed right away that she wasn't there to be eye candy. She was clever, street-smart and witty, and, when showered in over-the-top compliments by Courfeyrac, deflected them with more ease and bite than Musichetta had. Eponine had had a tragic childhood, one of which she wasn't ashamed. Seeing her parents' treatment of the poor and the eventual treatment of her own looming poverty is what fired her up to become a part of the countercultural revolution.

Then there was little Gavroche. He was Eponine's brother and couldn't have been more than ten years old. His presence was confusing to the new recruits, When Jehan tried to subtly ask Combeferre what this boy was doing here, Gavroche cut in- "Fighting for the people, you clyde! And why are you here?" Grantaire had laughed out loud and audibly expressed his approval, while Jehan tried to apologize.

"Ah, don't worry about it," dismissed Gavroche, with a smile. Shocking people with his precociousness was clearly something he enjoyed, and didn't hold it against his victims.

About twenty minutes had passed before Combeferre decided that they were acquainted well enough for now and called the meeting to order. Everybody took seats at the main table- Grantaire had made a point of pushing a chair out for Enjolras, which he took with a confusing mixture of resentment and gratitude. Grantaire, happy his gesture was received without yelling or open scorn, sat beside him with a smile.

"So, we've got about a week and a half left before the festival. Let's go over what we have on the schedule."

Joly shuffled through a manilla folder bursting with papers. "Well, September 5th... the day starts at one with Jenny Allman."

"We were having problems with her earlier," Bahorel said. "Is she still on?"

"She was recently signed," answered Feuilly. "The new management didn't know if this would be a good outlet for her. I think it's settled."

"It'd better be settled!" cried Bahorel. "We already lost one act. We can't lose our opener."

"Her manager gave the OK a few days ago," confirmed Bossuet.

The members of ABC Ventures batted around the names and credentials of many performers, with the occasional sarcastic comment uttered by Eponine, Bahorel and Bossuet, and, soon enough, Grantaire- which, of course, irked Enjolras.

"Now, to officially start the 6th... at midnight, we have Joey Langdon."

Grantaire looked to his right with a wide smirk. Enjolras was tensing up. This should be interesting.

"He agreed?" asked Marius.

"Of course he agreed. What other kind of work could he find?!" Enjolras exclaimed, rising from his seat. "What kind of message are you sending out, booking a satirist like Langdon?! The man performed a skit mocking Sharon Tate the very day after the news broke of her murder. Is that the countercultural message you want tied to you? Countercultural means that we're going against the grain. It doesn't mean people making tasteless jokes and intentionally offending the masses for the shock value! It certainly isn't licentious callousness under the guise of edge!"

All eyes were on Enjolras; they let silence hang in the air before Marius sheepishly said, "I think Langdon's shock value is important. It gets people to listen."

"He caters to the lowest common denominator, Marius! What use is getting people to listen when there's nothing worth listening to? The man is a moron!"

"Enjolras, calm down," Combeferre tried to soothe. "We booked him before he performed that skit. This is why we go over the schedule."

Grantaire grabbed his arm and pulled him down into his seat. "Well done," he murmured to him. "You almost overreacted to something."

Enjolras glared at him before turning back to the group. "Then what do you propose to do about this?"

"We wouldn't have anyone to replace him with," declared Bahorel. "I'd be all for kicking him off the lineup, but then we'd have an open slot."

"Jehan!" cried Courfeyrac. Everyone shifted their focus onto him. 

"What?" asked the man in question.

"Why not Jehan?" pressed Courfeyrac. "It's not just musicians, right? I mean, Joey Langdon did skits. Jehan does poetry. He could fill in!"

Jehan fidgeted in his seat, taking an elastic off of his thin wrist to pull back his long, dark blonde hair. "I don't mean to impose."

"Read us something," urged Eponine.

Courfeyrac smirked widely. "Read us something!"

Jehan inhaled deeply and flipped through the contents of his army bag. "I... may have something that fits the festival's tone."

"See?!" exclaimed Courfeyrac. "I'm putting out fires all over the place today."

Jehan continued to rummage through his bag, occasionally glancing up at the expectant faces. He pulled out a worn sheet of white paper, blackened by excessive ink, both in words and in scratches and edits. "This... one could work," he said, after giving it a quick once-over. "But it's still a work in progress. I... wrote this after hearing Enjolras' speech Friday night. It's about those who are otherwise capable, but don't feel compelled to make a change. It's about-"

"Oh, just read the damn thing!" demanded Grantaire, with a broad smile.

"Okay." Another deep inhale, and then he began:

'To think that, in the absence of a victim, the crime disappears  
Is among the highest folly man can produce.  
Victims can rise, victims can fall  
Victims can beckon, victims can call  
And the victim can suffer the victim's abuse.

For a victim is not always victimized, you will learn  
That the victim does not always know  
Issues arise, issues can fall  
Violence can beckon, violence can call  
And the violence stands before the victim, unknown.

And so the victim will stare ahead, eyes dark, eyes blank  
To believe violence is for progression  
Since he won't rise, this man will fall  
As he won't respond to duty's call  
And the violence consumes in an abject transgression.

The violence ignored becomes the violence stored  
As the victim is only so of his mind  
His lethargic, his intentionally wasted mind-  
Of late had been a brilliant kind-  
Now lies to waste in the hope of comfort.

But comfort is a lie  
A lie for today  
And comfort is a price  
That ignorance pays.'

The smug grin on Courfeyrac's face only intensified as the poem came to a close. "Didn't I say he'd be good? It's always the quiet ones with the most to say. No offense, E."

"Let's take a vote," suggested Eponine. "All in favor of the poet replacing the prick, raise your hand."

Up shot Courfeyrac's hand, followed by Feuilly's, until soon enough everyone but Marius and the poet himself had voted in favor of Jehan- and, with a stern look and a "Langdon's an ass, man", from Bossuet, Marius relented and raised his hand.

"Saturday at midnight. The slot is yours," confirmed Joly with a warm smile. He scribbled a few words down in his folder before asking, "So who's going to tell Langdon he's off the bill?"

"I'll do it," offered Enjolras.

"We're trying to fire him, not make the guy cry," scoffed Grantaire.

"I would say what needs to be said. If he happens to be offended by my observations, so be it," defended Enjolras.

"Let him do it!" prompted Gavroche. "The bastard deserves a good cry."

Joly shrugged. "The phone is downstairs. Just ask Musichetta to use it. She'll have his number in her contact book."

Enjolras nodded and stood. When Grantaire mirrored his movements- which did, indeed, arouse a certain amount of interest within the group, which had already been intrigued by the contrast of the pair- Enjolras wheeled around. "What are you doing?"

"Hey, iconoclast may I be, but even I know Joey Langdon's a douche. If you're about to rip him a new one, I wanna hear it."

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but said, "fine," and the two descended the stairs.

So, after roughly five minutes had elapsed, when the members of the ABC heard muffled screaming coming from below the floorboards, nobody was really surprised. 

"Do you think technology has reached a point where you can kill someone through a telephone?" asked Eponine.

"Let's find out," snorted Bahorel. 

They were all straining to hear what they could of Enjolras' telephonic confrontation, but it seemed as if the man fell silent. All of a sudden, they heard Grantaire burst out in a fit of laughter. Enjolras was raising his voice again.

"I almost feel sorry for the people on the first floor," Bossuet said. 

"What people?" laughed Courfeyrac. "As if Enjolras hasn't scared them all off by now."

The group listened intently, unable to make out the words being spoken, but entertained nonetheless by the intonation of it. Soon enough, Gavroche began shushing them all; he heard footsteps making their way up the stairs.

Enjolras looked flushed with anger as he re-entered the meeting room; Grantaire, on the other hand, looked as if he were having the time of his life. "It's been done," Enjolras declared gravely, with a curt nod to Combeferre.

"It was pretty amazing," Grantaire embellished. "I couldn't even hear everything Langdon was saying, and it was still amazing."

"Did he cry?" asked Bahorel.

"No, he didn't cry," answered Enjolras. "But he did vow to write a skit about me."

This caused the room to erupt in laughter. Grantaire soaked in the positive energy like a sponge. "Tell 'em what you said to that!" he urged.

"I told him that he could go ahead and write anything he'd like about me. I said that if he remains the ridiculous, cringe-worthy Philistine he currently is, then being libeled by him could only improve my reputation."

"Then what'd he say?" asked Gavroche, who brimmed over with excitement any time any kind of confrontation came into play.

"He told me I didn't get his art. Then he called me 'a bleeding heart candyass who isn't worthy of his time.' Quite frankly, I don't understand why we're discussing this. He's off the bill. That's what matters."

The group let out a few sighs of disappointment, under the impression that they were being deprived of thrilling verbal carnage. Grantaire assured that there would be no such deprivation. "Enjolras told him the only thing his heart bleeds for is the improvement of our broken nation, or some shit like that, and then said that being called 'unworthy of his time' was one of the biggest compliments he could get. So they bickered, and then Enjolras blew up. The mouth on this guy..."

"I didn't say anything I thought was out of line," Enjolras defended. "Can we move on from this topic?"

They all seemed content to ignore Enjolras and now directed their questions on the affair to Grantaire. "Did he mention the Tate skit?" asked Feuilly.

"Of course he did! He called it- damn, I want to get the wording right, because it was good- he called it... shit, Enjolras, help me out."

"An abhorrent aberration on the comedic map," the musician begrudgingly supplied.

"Right! And then he said- something about-"

"That everyone within a twenty mile radius of the site of that damned performance suffered a terrible loss to their collective IQ, and that anybody who found the skit amusing in any way, shape or form has the mentality of a deranged flea and should resign from their positions in the human race."

Applause exploded in the room, even from the initially opposing Marius. Grantaire continued to direct his gaze, full of admiration and pride, toward Enjolras. Gavroche whispered something to Eponine about "this one being alright."

"Now can we get back to more important matters?" Enjolras pleaded in a characteristically dignified manner. 

"Right. Let's finish reviewing the schedule," agreed Combeferre. 

Enjolras and Grantaire reclaimed their vacated seats and Joly continued where he had left off. "So, Jehan will perform at midnight. You'll have an hour long set. Is that okay?"

"Perfect," beamed Jehan. He was given assurance of his artistic license- not every poem had to be about revolution and politics, as long as he got some sort of message out there. While Jehan nodded along, he was hiding a sense of relief. Although he had several sparks of political empowerment within his art, he was a romantic at heart, and that showed when looking through his poetic catalog. 

They continued reading through the list of performers, making their comments, tweaking the order of things and solidifying set times. Enjolras began interjecting and speaking more and more frequently, to the point where he seemed as much the leader as Combeferre. Surprisingly, the other members of the ABC did not resent this. They seemed to appreciate it. From the way ideas were shared, jokes were made and affection, however offbeat it may have been, was expressed, there was an incontrovertible sense of community- of family, even- amongst this motley crew of young people. They all seemed to fit together, the 'new recruits' included, inexplicably well. For the first time in a while, Enjolras felt content with where he was and what he was doing- he didn't feel as if he were wasting his potential, but using it and refining it. He didn't feel as if his ideas were going unappreciated and misunderstood; instead, he felt as if these people could help him put his plans into action. 

Grantaire, too, was feeling swept up by this communal feeling. As a proudly self-proclaimed 'drifter', Grantaire had lived his life trying his very best to believe in nothing and no one. That being said, friendship did not come naturally to him. Very few could tolerate his outlandish demeanor, his vices and his constant negativity. He began to feel it a waste of energy to try and befriend another when he would most likely be gone from their company and setting within a week. But here, amongst the wave of idealists, the cynic felt at home. He found kindred spirits in Bahorel, Bossuet and Eponine. Their dark senses of humor meshed together to create commentary drier than the climate of the Sahara. He felt strangely protective of the independent and fierce Gavroche- something fraternal clicked within him as soon as he'd heard the young boy mouth off to Jehan. And of Enjolras? Well. His initial adoration of the man certainly wasn't dissipating. Quite the contrary.

"So, at 4 p.m. on the sixth, we have Enjolras gracing us with his music for an hour and a half," proclaimed Joly, who then began within the group a small round of applause.

"Save the applause until after you've heard him," Courfeyrac teased. 

"If you have any requests or ideas for your set, now would be the time to make them heard," prompted Combeferre.

Enjolras thought for a moment before asking, "what are you estimating for the audience turnout?"

Bossuet shrugged. "A couple hundred, maybe."

"We've got tickets," said Joly. "I know you've only got a week and a half, but if you'd be up for selling a few, we'd appreciate it."

"I think you severely overestimate my popularity."

"Every ticket sale helps," Combeferre urged.

"What do you guys do with the ticket money? Fund the wine rack?" Naturally, this question was Grantaire's.

"Some of it goes toward paying the performers and sponsors. The rest, if there's any left, goes toward a trip to DC."

Enjolras perked up. "What are you doing in DC?"

"Organizing a big protest. Draft resistance. Hopefully for the end of the fall."

"Why don't you guys take up with the actual Draft Resistance?" scoffed Grantaire.

"We've got certain draft resistance groups affiliated with us. We're combining forces," replied Feuilly.

"It's going to be huge," emphasized Eponine. "A real chance to make a difference. They'd have to notice us in DC."

Enjolras' mind was reeling. A protest in the nation's capital for draft resistance? He'd always dreamed of visiting Washington, D.C. with a purpose. To do so would be a dream come true, both literally and figuratively. If he could remain on good terms and find himself an official member of this group- no, he reminded himself. It was best not to get ahead of the game. He had a music festival to focus on before any protests. So, of course, he voiced as much. "That sounds incredibly exciting- and really, I mean that- but perhaps we should stay focused on the festival."

Combeferre nodded. Joly began reading from his list, detailing the specifics of the performances, as much for Jehan's benefit now as for Enjolras'. They continued discussing, in their lively fashion, the festival's schedule without a further hitch. When said topic came to a close, they moved on to other matters.

"Now, as you know, we're using Saturday and Sunday to meet with our sponsors. We were all partnered up and assigned a sponsor last week, remember?" Everyone nodded, and so Combeferre continued. "We've run into a bit of a conflict. Valjean called Joly and Bossuet on Sunday. He'd like to meet with some of us to talk about the stage layout."

Feuilly took this upon himself to explain to the four new men at the table that Valjean is the farmer in Wallkill who was allowing them to use his land for the festival.

"Since we'll all be traveling to meet with the sponsors, we don't have anybody free. So I think we should discuss which sponsor we believe isn't in need of yet another meeting, and whoever is freed up can meet with Valjean this weekend."

There was a moment of contemplation before Enjolras volunteered. "I'll do it." Every pair of eyes in the room found their way to the musician. "I have a show Saturday night, but I'm free Sunday. I can do it."

Combeferre, Joly and Bossuet exchanged glances before Joly spoke. "Enjolras, while we know you could get the job done, you're kind of-"

"Intense," finished Bossuet. 

"What are you saying?" asked Enjolras. "That I'm not charismatic to keep your deal strong?"

"Not at all!" responded Joly. "You're perfectly charismatic when you're... not... angry."

"Is Valjean the type to anger and offend?"

"Now, now, children. Never fear. I'll accompany our resident Greek god. I'll be the charm, he'll be the force," suggested Grantaire, smiling as if he had implied something that nobody else had understood.

"While that's a kind offer- from both of you- and while I believe you'd make an... interesting... team, neither of you have been here from the beginning," replied Combeferre. "We need someone who's been here long enough to know the ins and outs of our game plan."

"Well," Courfeyrac began, "someone can switch with me. I'd be happy to join a sponsor team. Whoever I switch with can accompany the Odd Couple."

"I'll go," said Marius. "I mean, I'd rather be visiting a farm than another city, anyway."

Courfeyrac grinned, happy he could help. "Great! So who's my lucky partner?" He gazed at Eponine as he said this, silently wishing.

"I am," answered Combeferre.

Courfeyrac's face fell. Well, there goes spending the weekend fooling around and avoiding any actual labor. "Fantastic!"

The members of ABC Ventures spent another half an hour perfecting their strategies for the weekend meetings, another hour arguing- "I'm just saying, communism is a perfect system in theory!" Marius had so naively said- and a final hour laughing. At what? Nobody really knew. Grantaire had opened four bottles of wine while watching Combeferre somehow get roped in to the communism debate, and, well, it made the night even more animated.

As they were all getting ready to leave, Grantaire had thrown his arms around an incredibly sober Enjolras, who promptly pushed him away. He would wake up the next morning wondering where the bruise on his shoulder had come from.


	5. Chapter Four

The four days in between Tuesday and Saturday dragged for everybody who had found themselves involved with ABC Ventures. Enjolras could barely focus on the few assignments he'd had; his thoughts were deluged with images of that oh-so briefly mentioned protest in DC. He'd had to mentally- and at least once, physically- slap himself out of his reverie to keep his overactive mind in the present. 

When Saturday finally rolled around, Courfeyrac was forced to leave his dorm at an early hour to which he wasn't accustomed. Combeferre wanted to leave for Albany with time to spare and so, despite the journey taking only two and a half hours and the meeting not being until 2 p.m., the pair was to leave at 6 that morning. Enjolras had been awake to see his roommate off, wishing the groggy man good luck, to which Courfeyrac had simply mumbled.

So, left to his own devices, Enjolras went off for his morning walk, bought and read the day's newspaper, and returned home to practice his set. As he strummed the chords to his intended cover song of the night, his mind began to wander. He couldn't recall a time he'd felt more comfortable. This new group, the constant stream of shows- things seemed to be going well. These people- with the exception of one, Enjolras noted- shared his passion. This wasn't fourth grade in prep school, when he had tried to organize a mock election within his twelve-boy class. (After his election, he assured his post as the intimidating outcast by lecturing his peers on the importance of smart voting- "it's not a popularity contest!") This wasn't the time he'd had an essay of his published in the local paper at age 13, when the readers gushed not at his ideas, but at how adorable it was that a little thirteen-year old was playing author. This was a group of people who seemed to understand him. The past week, Enjolras had been able to sleep. He hadn't tossed and turned, wrestling with his bewildering dichotomy of anger and hope for the world. He hadn't had to squeeze his eyes shut in an attempt to drown out his own fear of ineffectiveness. He'd felt as though he were on the right track, and therefore deserved to rest.

Yes, his standards were high- and yes, sometimes they were too high for even himself to live up to. Such was the life of the idealist, he had consoled himself time and again. 

With a pensive smile, Enjolras decided to give the Phil Ochs song he had so painstakingly chosen for the night a rain check.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
That night, in front of an estimated 75-member audience at Cafe Who?, Enjolras felt it was natural to have chosen Ray Davies' 'This is Where I Belong.' But, as the cover followed his anthemic 'Conscription Blues', and as it was still, well, Enjolras who was performing, it was also natural for him to preface it in such a way as to turn the Kinks' light-hearted song about finding acceptance into a societal commentary.

"And who here can arouse themselves from the unconsciousness of night with the confidence that America is, indeed, not simply a setting, but a home? How many of us can say we've felt a real sense of community within our man-made confines? How can anyone blessed with the gift of curiosity be content when they are unable to trust those meant to protect us?

"Every day, the young men of this country have to worry when checking the mail. God forbid that cursed letter should befall him, telling him to report to the nearest induction center. Land of the free indeed! What freedom do we bear when any man deemed fit by the powers that be could be ripped from his home and thrown into the harsh world of immoral warfare? With this fear in place, what differentiates us from the communist societies we deem so inferior?

"We must ask ourselves- is this where we belong? Is Vietnam where our loved ones- where we- belong? No. The only way we can truly belong anywhere begins with trust and community. With cooperation and effort, these can be achieved! We can all find the place in which we truly belong if we band together to question and fight!"

It was almost comical, hearing Enjolras speak in this inflammatory nature before transitioning straight into a major-chord oriented song whose first verse includes the line, "the whole wide world doesn't mean so much to me."

Natural was it, too, for Grantaire to be sitting at the bar in the back, skeptically yet adoringly watching Enjolras perform. He had to admit, he liked hearing him play music that was a little less angry. It made him seem more approachable, less intimidating and, on a whole, more human. 

"Well, I ain't gonna wander," Enjolras sang, "like the boy I used to know. He's a real unlucky fella, and he's got no place to go."

Grantaire smiled- not sarcastically or mockingly, but genuinely. He couldn't remember what had made him stop into Cafe Who? that Wednesday night when he'd met Enjolras, but he was thankful for it. If he hadn't attended that show, he knew he wouldn't have returned to the city after his excursion in Bethel. 

"I won't search for a house upon a hill. Why should I when I'd only miss you still? For this is where I belong. Oh, this is where I belong."

Grantaire found himself applauding with obnoxious enthusiasm as the song came to a close before regaining his composure and ordering another drink. Leave it to Ray Davies, the satirical, sensitive, cynical Ray Davies, to speak his mind for him. He sighed contentedly, made some half-hearted remark to Crystal about the musician's talents, and then turned his full attention back toward the stage. The remaining songs in Enjolras' set were ones he had heard before, but he listened and watched with the focus of one to whom the entire concept of music was new. 

This time, when Enjolras made his way through the masses to order his customary ice water from the bar, the performer was not at all surprised to see Grantaire sitting there. He gave him a civil nod and said, "I don't remember mentioning to you where my show tonight would be."

Grantaire shrugged. "You didn't have to."

"That's more than a bit unnerving," rejoined Enjolras.

"You're glad I'm here."

"Oh?"

"Of course. I mean, I know I'm no one's first choice, but hey," replied Grantaire, "even I'm better than playing for a club full of 100-odd strangers."

"Even so," Enjolras smirked, "stalking is stalking." He took a seat on the bar stool beside Grantaire and asked, "don't you have anything better to do?"

Grantaire took an impressive swig of his drink, slammed it down on the bar and cheerfully responded, "nope!" They watched the next act, an acoustic folk duo, set up and take the stage. launching into a skillful cover of 'Hangman.' "You were great tonight- speeches aside," he commented.

Enjolras eyed him suspiciously, waiting for another snide remark to counter this, but heard none. "Thank you."

"I liked the Kinks thing. You should do more stuff like that."

"It was a trial run."

Both men sipped their drinks, Enjolras doing his best to avoid the attentive and galling stare of Grantaire.

"So... how's school going?"

"Not every silence demands to be filled," snapped Enjolras.

Grantaire shrugged. "I was actually asking. You know, with interest. Did that not show?"

"It's hard to tell with you." Grantaire shrugged again, this time in an exaggerated show of faux innocence. So Enjolras shook his head and replied to the inquiry. "It's going smoothly, as the beginning always does. There's an assignment due for my European history course that I'm quite excited about. It's a historical analysis of a major event in 18th century."

"And you're going with... let me guess," Grantaire mused. "French revolution?"

"Maybe."

Grantaire laughed. "You're so predictable."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "The spirit of the event is in keeping with my own character. I'm drawn to it."

"Are you going to include the fact that France allowed one of its heroes to ruin everything they'd accomplished in less than a decade?" Grantaire asked. Instigator? Maybe he was. But there was something rewarding about getting to crack Enjolras' confident veneer. 

"Allowed? You say this as if France had much of a choice. Napoleon was brilliant, charismatic and was a strong republican to begin with."

"A dictator's a dictator. Oops, sorry. Emperor."

"I'm in no way defending Napoleon," explained Enjolras, his eyes locked onto Grantaire's with their usual piercing intensity. "I was simply critiquing your choice in words."

"The guy was a narcissist."

"Again, I'm in no way defending him," Enjolras repeated, slowly and condescendingly. "You seem to be missing that point. I am merely defending the French people. Who could have known he would reinstate the monarchy? He'd been a strong republican during the revolution. It would have taken something supernatural to spot and prevent his eventual autocratic method."

"Hey, you're the one who's all about the people rising and stopping shit like that," returned Grantaire. 

"The people did rise. Multiple times."

"It only took forty years."

"Forty years to establish another republic," Enjolras pointed out, his irritation becoming more and more visible. He wouldn't be so irritable if Grantaire were simply ignorant. The man before him was anything but. Grantaire was enlightened, cultured, and, really, quite intelligent, but, for some reason, seemed to revel in the upheaval of Enjolras' peace of mind. "But they'd fought innumerable times before. Are you forgetting the July Revolution?"

Grantaire snorted. "Are you forgetting the June Rebellion?"

"All that can be said to that tremendously ridiculous argument is that we were never discussing success versus failure. If we were to examine the strength and perseverance of the people against incalculable odds, the June Rebellion is a great example. Those revolutionaries never stood a chance, but they tried with all they had."

"Oh, come on!" exclaimed Grantaire, amused. "It failed. How is that impressive? It shows the revolutionaries weren't thinking things through. It shows how easy it is for idealists to get ahead of themselves."

Enjolras gritted his teeth and closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself. "I'd rather be an idealist, however naive and rash my actions may seem, than a cynic who puts forth no action to begin with."

Grantaire threw his hands over his chest in a flamboyant display of mock hurt. "Enjolras! Was that a jibe at me?" 

"Why are you here, Grantaire? Why have you been at my past three shows? Why join ABC? Why accompany me to Valjean's tomorrow?" Enjolras fired off the questions that he had been mulling over since he had seen the skeptic at Staley's. "Are you that set on getting under my skin?"

Grantaire turned on his stool so that he now faced the bar. Elbows on the surface, chin rested upon his fists, he laughed to himself. "I like you. I like talking to you."

"You like fighting with me."

"Same thing, right?"

"With you, yes, it is the same thing."

Grantaire shrugged, still smiling. 

Tomorrow, Enjolras was quickly realizing, was going to be a long day.


	6. Chapter Five

Sunday morning, Marius, Enjolras and Grantaire had thought it best to meet on neutral ground- the Cafe Musain- before embarking on their journey to Wallkill. They greeted Musichetta, grabbed three coffees to go, and piled on into Grantaire's run-down van. Grantaire had readily volunteered to drive the hour and a half expedition, which was convenient enough- Enjolras didn't drive and Marius wasn't keen on letting these two near-strangers into his new Barracuda. 

The drive went well enough. The three distinctive personalities even found themselves bonding over music. Who would have guessed that gentle Marius was such a fan of the sullen songs of Leonard Cohen? Or that, three years ago, the rigid Enjolras had worn out a copy of 'Pet Sounds'? The only time Enjolras and Grantaire had argued had been when Grantaire had suggested that the Moody Blues were superior to Procol Harum, which had sparked a radio war- the two were launched into a passionate battle, Grantaire dialing his radio back to 'Nights in White Satin' while Enjolras did the same to 'Conquistador.' (Eventually, due solely to the song's lengthiness, 'Nights in White Satin' won out and Grantaire claimed victory for himself and for the Blues.) 

When the harsh outlines and grey of the city blurred past and transformed themselves into the verdant green of the countryside, each member of the unlikely trio felt a sense of relaxation. But New York City had a universally interesting effect- as miserable as it was bound to make you, you'd miss it before you could even consider returning.

Driving into Wallkill was like driving into another dimension. It was a quaint place; a "small town with small minds," Grantaire had said while discussing with Marius how its citizens protested and rejected the organizers of the Woodstock Festival. Small minds some of its inhabitants may have had, but it was impossible to ignore the tranquility that came along with entering a quiet farm town from a roaring city.

Marius, who had, admittedly, never been to Valjean's farm before, was giving directions. Each time the ABC had gone to meet with the proprietor, they were represented by Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet and/or Bahorel; Marius, though he had been invited, had therefore never thought it worth the visit. He knew all of the plans for the festival and knew of Valjeans' admirable reputation, however, which made him the unintentional leader of the current group.

"It's up about a mile more... turn down here."

And so they watched rolling fields and Mom-and-Pop shops drift on by through their windows for a mile or so before Grantaire followed the instructions provided by the occupant of the backseat and turned down a winding side dirt road.

"We're better off parking here," directed Marius. 

For lack of any clear road signs, Grantaire parked right in front of a split-rail fence. "Alright, we're parked," he said. "Now where the hell is it?"

"Joly said we'd have to walk a little."

"You think hundreds of people are going to go through all this to hear some music?"

"You broke into a farm in Bethel by crawling under a metal gate to get to Woodstock," Enjolras pointed out, which immediately silenced Grantaire's doubts.

Marius and Enjolras, in an unspoken agreement, exited the van and immediately climbed over the short fence. Grantaire sighed heavily, but was left with no option but to follow them. 

They hadn't been walking three minutes when they started on a downward slope and saw a beautiful white farmhouse. There was an older man sitting on the porch whom they all correctly took for Valjean. As the three approached, the man stood and offered a small wave.

Valjean had to have been well into his 50s, but there was something incredibly youthful about him. Perhaps it was his strong build. He towered over each of the ABC representatives, including the especially tall Enjolras, but somehow, his stature didn't make him appear threatening. Valjean had the brawny form of someone who had been performing manual labor for most of his life accompanied by a sagacious reticence and seriousness- a combination not typically seen and at which one is bound to marvel. His silver hair was perhaps a little too long, his mustache a little too unkempt and the wrinkles around his kind but stern eyes a little too pronounced- and yet he maintained a handsome dignity about him.

Although Marius was the closest the trio had to a leader, it was Enjolras who spoke first. "Mr. Valjean, I presume? I'm Enjolras, this is Marius, and that is Grantaire. We're here from ABC Ventures to talk with you about the upcoming festival."

Valjean nodded. With a "come on in," he led the small group through his screen door and into his home.

The front door led into a large, open sitting room. It was modestly decorated. The walls were adorned only by off-white wallpaper with dark blue stripes, a clock and a large wooden cross. The furniture was limited by practicality. There was a white couch, two armchairs and, in the center, a simple coffee table littered with hard-cover books. In the corner sat a round end-table, on which an old radio was perched. There was no television. There was an arch adjoining a small kitchen to the sitting room on the right side of the wall along with a mahogany door leading to a bathroom. The back wall bore sliding doors that led out to a field. On the left side, behind the couch, was a narrow stairway. 

Valjean gestured for the three men to take a seat, which they did, all on the couch. Valjean took one of the armchairs. Sitting perfectly upright, he said, "I should get directly to the point. I called Joly and Bossuet because I've been thinking about the expense of the festival."

Enjolras and Grantaire exchanged glances but quickly shifted their focus back toward Valjean.

"Please understand that I'm trying to ask for as little as I possibly can. I fully support your festival and I promise you, I'll never let what happened to Lang and his associates happen to you. I am willing to negotiate. But I hadn't taken into account the damages that may be done to my crops. It's coming on September; I can't afford to lose anything during harvest season."

Marius had been expecting this. He rummaged through his sleek, black backpack and produced a paper bag. "Mr. Valjean, do you think $500 would cover it?"

Grantaire and Enjolras turned their heads to the left to gape at the man beside them. When they turned their eyes back to the land-owner, his expression was similar to theirs. "Marius, I can't accept that."

Marius, confused, felt an inward panic. "Do you need more? I can't go over $700, but we could-"

"No, no," he protested. "500 is too much. I couldn't possibly accept that."

"Then... what could you accept?"

"I was planning on asking you only to reimburse some of the damages- after the festival has occurred and you have made a profit. You're young. Most of you are students. I had no intention of asking for more than $200."

Marius was rendered speechless, and so Enjolras stepped in. "You're too generous, Mr. Valjean. We can agree to pay you whatever you deem fit."

Valjean gave Enjolras a humble nod and a gentle smile. "I truly wish to help you. I believe everyone should have a platform where they can express themselves." Marius, now snapped out of his generosity-inspired reverie, and Enjolras returned the smile. Grantaire simply smirked, his eyebrow characteristically and mistrustingly arched. "Now, you plan to begin stage construction and set up on Wednesday, I hear."

Marius nodded emphatically. "Yes. We've hired a construction team that's taking care of the stage. We'll take care of the booths and tents."

"What time do you plan on coming by?"

"Noon the latest," answered Marius. "There's a lot to be done."

"Good. I'll help," announced Valjean.

"Sir, you don't need to-"

"I'll help," he repeated decidedly. "You're attempting to create a concert space within two days. You'll need help."

They continued discussing various aspects of the festival- the physical set-up, the schedule, concessions, booths, where the members of ABC Ventures would be lodging (tents behind the stage had been previously decided upon, to Enjolras' surprise) and, eventually, the performers. 

"Enjolras here is performing, you know," Grantaire brought up with barely concealed pride.

Valjean cocked an eyebrow in an expression that encouraged Enjolras to elaborate on this claim.

"Well, yes," began the musician. "Combeferre approached me at a show of mine to replace an act that had dropped out. My music is reliant on activism; I've been told that at shows, I preach as much as I sing. But I'm dedicated to my cause and I find that music is the perfect medium for it."

"And what is your cause?"

"My cause is justice for all. It is true equality and the true freedom to choose the course of one's life. My cause is to stir people from their idleness and to create unity."

"Those are admirable causes," Valjean commended. "But they're ambitious. Maybe too ambitious for one man. I warn you from experience: do not allow your passion for the people to blind you from your place among them."

Enjolras furrowed his brow, alarmed by Valjean's cryptic warning. But before he could formulate a suitable response, his attention- the entire room's attention, more accurately- was drawn to the stairway.

A young woman, no more than twenty years of age, had come walking down the stairs, her soft, lilting voice saying, "father, I've been thinking, and I've decided that-" She cut herself off as she reached the bottom of the staircase, noticing that they had company. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize-"

Valjean smiled warmly. "It's quite alright, Cosette."

Cosette was absolutely stunning in every imaginable way. Her long blonde hair beautifully framed her slender face with its gentle waves, highlighting her unnaturally large blue eyes. Her features were delicate, her frame tall and thin, her complexion pale and her demeanor compassionate. She wore a fitting, blue sleeveless top and a long, dark blue skirt which flowed around her almost as gracefully as she moved.

She eyed their guests carefully and asked, "Are you guys from ABC?"

Marius wanted to answer. Marius tried to answer. Marius couldn't answer. He stared unabashedly at the vision before him and all logical thought seemed to have exited the young law student's mind. All he had to do was say, 'yes, we're from ABC'. Or even just a 'yes' would be sufficient. But each time he opened his mouth, he felt the wind being knocked out of him, forcing him to resign to silence.

Silence is peculiar, especially as it is essentially an auditory sensation of absolutely nothing. As some silences are comfortable or uncomfortable, there is also a way to gauge silences based on subtlety. A subtle silence is easy and natural. It does not call attention to itself. An unsubtle silence, on the other hand, can barely be called a silence at all, seeing as it practically screams with its intention. Marius, with his wide eyes and frightfully attentive gaze, was caught in the throes of a very unsubtle silence.

And since it was so unsubtle, even Enjolras, who was not exactly attuned to such matters, took notice and therefore attempted to save his new business partner. "Yes, we're from ABC."

Cosette smiled widely, which only seemed to exacerbate the sad state of Marius' mind. "Great!" she exclaimed. "I'm really excited for the festival, just so you all know. I've never been to anything like this before. So I guess I'd like to thank you for using our land. It's going to be perfect."

"Yeah," Marius murmured, dazed. "Perfect."

"Do you guys mind if I sit in on your meeting?"

"Not at all!" replied Grantaire. "I found the testosterone level in this room a bit worrying."

Cosette let out a small laugh at his joke and took a seat in the second armchair. They made proper introductions before Valjean asked if they would like to see the land they'd be converting into a performance space.

The three men agreed to his offer, and so Valjean led them, along with Cosette, out of the sliding doors and into a large space of rolling green. "This would be where you'd set up," began the proprietor. "My crops are far down, toward the left, before the trees. The livestock is toward the right. I'd prefer if you kept the crowd away from those areas. But other than that, you can do what you'd like to the area."

Enjolras, Marius and even Grantaire were pleasantly surprised by the landscape. It was mostly flat, save a few small hills, which was ideal for stage setup. There was a good distance between where they stood and where the preferred cut-off point was. It was easy to visualize; the stage would be centered a yard or two before that cut-off. The various tents and booths would be easy to place. The size and texture of the land were definitely up to the high praise given by Combeferre.

The group spent about a half hour surveying the land, asking Cosette and Valjean questions as they walked the perimeters. 

Marius did his fair share of surveying, but he left the questions to be asked by his companions. He wasn't entirely sure of his sudden inability to speak. He'd never been the most moving or articulate of speakers even on a good day, but this wasn't a matter of insecurity or poor speaking skills. Marius found himself too distracted to verbalize his questions, and despite his tendency to daydream, this was not ordinary. It was especially out of the ordinary to find that such a distraction came from another person.

"Now, I've invited you here not only to discuss what we've already touched upon, but to get all of the final information and to answer any questions you may have. This is the last weekend before the festival, and so I want to make sure both parties are completely clear on all we should be," said Valjean, as he led them back inside. They quickly resumed their seating arrangement from before. "The last time I met with the ABC, we were unclear about a lot of subjects. So I'll ask a few questions. What have you done about security?"

Enjolras looked at Grantaire, his eyes widened with the fear that they could not answer this question and subsequently rescue the mute Marius. Grantaire shrugged, as if to say, "the hell if I know." Well, this is why Marius was with them instead of Combeferre, wasn't it?

So Enjolras nudged Marius ever so slightly, urging him to rack his brain for the correct response. Marius cleared his throat and laughed nervously before turning his eyes toward the floor. It would be easier to answer if he pretended Cosette were not there. "We've- we've, uh, hired the- uh- Children of Liberty."

"The motorcycle gang?" 

"Bahorel- one of our- uh- one of our members- has a brother in- in the gang. They're not- they're not really a gang. They're just a group, really."

Grantaire shook his head at the smitten law student and decided a little damage control wouldn't hurt. "Mr. Valjean, is it really so unorthodox? Wavy Gravy and the Hog Farmers did a great job at Woodstock, and they're not exactly professional security. We trust Bahorel's judgment. When have you ever seen the Children of Liberty in the headlines?"

Enjolras cast a surprised look in Grantaire's direction. Perhaps he could be useful in interpersonal ventures.

"This is true," Valjean thought aloud.

"We fully understand why you'd have misgivings, and we thank you whole-heartedly for your generosity- nay, we are humbled by it," Grantaire praised, now fully turning on the charm that Enjolras didn't know he possessed. It made the musician smile, to think that he'd had this secret weapon in his arsenal. Or perhaps Grantaire was naturally charming when sober. Enjolras had never seen a sober Grantaire before this day. "And we promise to keep all conflict down, at any cost. All we ask is that you trust us."

Valjean nodded, content with this response. "And food? What are you doing to feed the crowd?"

Marius was up to bat. "We- we're going to have a booth. A few of us- well, four of us- agreed to- we're going to make food all weekend. Free, of course. I'm- I'm in charge of that."

"I can help," offered Cosette.

Marius blanched and jerked his head toward her. "What-?" he managed to croak.

"I'll help with the food," she continued, oblivious to his sudden fluster. "I'm pretty good with cooking. And, after all, we have a stove. If it's alright with Father, you'd be welcome to use it." Cosette offered a kind smile.

"I- uh- yes, well-"

"What my partner here means to say is, 'yes, lovely Cosette, and thank you for that wonderful offer.'" It was Grantaire to the rescue once more.

Marius blushed, but attempted to nod.

"And you'll have enough for...?"

"About 250," answered Enjolras, taking liberty with the statistics he'd been given on Tuesday. "Give or take."

"Are you kids up to the challenge?" teased Grantaire, directing this to Cosette and Marius.

"It'll be fun," she answered. 

"Heh," was Marius' reply. 

Valjean eyed Marius suspiciously. His age had not made him so blind as to miss the signs of a young man infatuated. "And where will security be staying...? And the construction teams or any other staff?" he asked, shifting the topic away from the new cooking partnership between his beautiful daughter and this handsome festival promoter.

"We've- we've found a hotel up the road," stammered Marius. "We're paying their expenses."

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, continually shocked by the amount of funding this group seemed to have.

The five continued to talk in this fashion, answering each question of Valjean's until the man seemed comfortable with the prospect of the following weekend. He was a kind man, but cautious, and perhaps rightfully so. He wasn't exactly skeptical, but he was well-informed. Enjolras found himself harboring a deep respect for the man. Eventually, when all seemed to be sorted, he excused himself to get a little work done. After requesting Cosette to feed their guests, he let himself out the sliding door. The four young people watched his figure fade, and then turned amongst themselves.

Cosette stood and, with that smile of hers, said, "I'll go get a few sandwiches and drinks for everyone."

"Marius'll go help you!" cried Grantaire, suggestively grinning. Marius stared at him, a deer in the headlights, terrified. "If you two are going to be working together, you might as well establish a solid food-based relationship." This elaboration furthered Marius' embarrassment, but the stunned young man found himself standing up on shaky legs and following the blonde into the kitchen.

Grantaire began laughing as soon as they had disappeared from the sitting room. "Poor kid," he said.

"He's become terribly awkward- even for him," Enjolras commented. 

"Oh, Enjolras, our boy is in love!" Grantaire exclaimed.

"In love? He's just met her."

"Doesn't matter. He's in love."

"But he's-"

"In love."

"Grantaire, he's-"

"Head over heels in love."

"Grantaire! Marius is a law student. He's clearly very intelligent. I trust he's wise enough to put the insane idea of love at first sight out of the realm of possibility."

"One cannot control love, Enjolras. It just hits you. It defies logic."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Love is a distraction, Grantaire. And as we're on a business trip, I don't think that Marius would concern himself with such an affair."

"Perhaps he can't help it," said Grantaire. Enjolras narrowed his eyes at him, and Grantaire took this as encouragement to elaborate. "Love is all around us, Enjolras. It is in the ebb and flow of the tides and it pollutes the air we breathe, and yet it is not so easily attained. The thought of love surrounded fair Helen with war; the retaining of it brought Orpheus to confront the Underworld; the loss of it brought a knife to Thisbe's breast. Love fuels us, as humans. One cannot live without love and to convince oneself otherwise is pure folly. Love comes in all forms, you see- familial, fraternal, and romantic, or unrequited and scorned- and all are to be envied. It is the seal of a lifetime. It proves we have not wasted what the gods have bestowed upon us in our hasty creation. But all-consuming, passionate love is to be the most sacred. If our new friend is on his way toward such a fate, we should not berate his intelligence, but praise his humanity."

Enjolras stared at Grantaire incredulously, not quite understanding what he had heard. It hadn't exactly been optimistic, as it was tinged with a certain sorrow, but it was certainly passionate. For a man who believed in nothing, he talked of love with the heart of a poet. "And here I was silently congratulating you on what I thought was sobriety," remarked Enjolras.

"I haven't had a drop all day," Grantaire corrected.

"You sound like Jehan when you're sober."

"These aren't just sober views. We've discussed hatred, Enjolras, but you and I have never discussed love."

"Because I have no opinion on love."

Grantaire frowned and seemed to think for a moment before saying, "I think you could."

"I don't want to," Enjolras shot back. "I have more important things to work toward. My country needs me."

"I'm not sure I believe that." 

"Believe what?"

"You? Lacking an opinion? Never."

As they seemed to sink into silence, a small giggle was emanated from the kitchen before they heard Cosette say lightly, "no, you're doing it wrong!"

"Sounds like our little Romeo is doing well," Grantaire remarked. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes but refrained from commenting, feeling inexplicably annoyed.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________

Cosette had lived a sheltered life. She had been home-schooled and raised in this rural section of New York, never traveling to the city and never really having the solid companionship of her peers. It wasn't something she minded. She adored her father. He was peculiar in his penchant for isolation, but he was loving, kind and full of wisdom. But, she had to admit, she did find herself feeling lonely from time to time. Cosette was an optimist, that was for sure, and was strong enough in her self-conviction and awareness to prevent the occasional loneliness from spiraling into something more. So, using caution, she would frequently wonder to herself just what a life outside of her quiet, homebound one might hold.

When the call had come through about surveying their land for a festival, it was Cosette who had answered. She had given confirmation and set up the appointment. Later on, she was left to explain it to her father. Valjean, however stern he may have seemed, had a weakness for his daughter and could not refuse her anything. And so he listened to her pleas to allow the potential festival with an air of harsh indecision, inwardly amused by and adoring her ramblings, knowing he was going to approve. 

In truth, Valjean had fallen victim to worrying about Cosette's lack of socialization. He chose the rural life because it comforted him. Cosette's mother had died tragically young, leaving Valjean with a wound from which he would never fully recover. After fighting a losing battle with forlornness, Valjean took his two-year old daughter and relocated to Wallkill. The isolation did him well. But, he knew, a growing girl needed friendship. She needed more than her father for company. The strolls she would take around town did grant her several admiring acquaintances, but he knew these weren't sufficient. Perhaps it was, he feared, his own selfishness in not being willing to part with his beloved daughter that held them here. 

As a result of this fear, Valjean was just as anxious as Cosette about this festival. He enjoyed when the representatives of ABC Ventures came to visit and discuss plans. Cosette would always volunteer to help; she reveled in the new companionship of these intelligent, driven people her own age. Valjean, too, was drawn to these youths. They reminded him of himself, before he had lost his Fantine.

Cosette knew nothing of romantic love, other than what she had read in books. Having little opportunity to do much else, Cosette was an extremely well-read and erudite young woman. With her father's influence, she became versed in the classics, taking particular interest in tales of human passion. Love and hatred, she reasoned, were the methods to humanity's madness. She struggled to understand them and studied them as one would study a science, not fully seeing the ill-applied logic that fueled both. Love and hatred cannot be understood by mere mortals, but they do not need to be. They need only to be accepted. But one cannot really accept these unique sensations without first having experienced them.

So Cosette threw herself whole-heartedly in the midst of this countercultural whirlwind, finding in it an outlet for her loneliness and creativity, hoping to gain only friendship, insight and experience. 

It is within the human condition to love, but it is out of the realm of human imagination to expect it. And so by enthusiastically joining this group, Cosette was unwittingly meandering down a path of full-fledged humanity, riddled with all of its stark flaws and benefits. 

And she was in good company.


End file.
